


The Taste of Home

by Foxxtail90



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: I am posting this on a whim, Other, PK is kinda briefly there too, Please be gentle, This ain't about him though, This was NOT put through a beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxxtail90/pseuds/Foxxtail90
Summary: They can not keep their nonexistent eyes off the most fiery and alive visage of life they’ve ever seen.
Relationships: Grimm/The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	The Taste of Home

Silence. That’s all that can be heard in their empty shell. A sad- No. A nothing. A nothing blankness. Nothing can disturb the carefully cultivated silence of the Vessel. Creation of the Pale King. Savior of Hallownest. Wyrm spawn. The price for a peaceful kingdom. Nothing can shake them because there is nothing to shake. A statue standing among the living and full.

What is it like to be full? To be alive. To hear the chatter for what it is. To indulge in sweet treats carefully crafted. To stare in awe of someone once a god. The thrill of being invited to a lively evening. An evening full of bugs just like you, all equally nervous but excited to socialize. The chance to be in the same room as His Majesty and the Vessel.

They wouldn’t know. They do not wonder such things for all they hear is silence. The whispers and stares and pointed fingers all at the cause of they’re impressive figure do nothing to shake them. There is nothing to shake.

They do not see the aristocrats having a merry night. They do not hear the excited conversations or smell too much perfume. Content followers of their creator taking place in a marvelous night. No. All they know are bugs looking to the hopeful future. The future they are meant to bring to them. They feel no strong emotion over it one way or another. They have a task to carry out and when the time comes, they will not fail. Failing is not an option. It can’t be. For the sake of the room full of hopeful bugs and many more stretching out through Hallownest’s hold.

It’s then the most peculiar of things happens. They hear. They hear it all. The room, the conversations, the brief whispers of passing staff members. All of it. Why? Why would they hear it all so suddenly? They do not question it. They already know. They can see the reason clear as the light that plagues dreams. An unexpected guest. He simply let himself in, complete disregard to whether he is wanted here or not. Something. Ticks. Just for a moment. A bubble popped before forming. They don’t need to think on it. They know this stranger. Everyone does. The lower tones and hushed, worried whispers prove it.

Crimson eyes scan the crowd in a down right predatory fashion. He’s looking for something. Someone. Those eyes seem to find what they were looking for. Crimson bores into black. Pale crown. Black horns. Tendrils like a cloak sway on their own as the predator slowly approaches its prey. A cloak like armor stands immobile as the prey faces the predator calmly.

The Vessel does not concern theirself with the conversation. They do not concern theirself with the frightened voices. They do not think of the stranger they know speaking so freely to The Wyrm.

They do not think at all. They stand stock still allowing a wary calm to crawl its way forward. They do not notice the eyes that leave the unusual pair and find theirself. They are not shaken by the attention suddenly on theirself or whatever confectionary has been set to replace an empty plate.

They do not hear when a hoarse laugh sounds from the not stranger.

They do not wish when a delicate black hand is placed on The Wyrm’s shoulder.

They do not want when the not stranger smiles at The Wyrm.

They do not feel those beautiful eyes glance their way.

They do not shake when the not stranger’s smile hits something in them.

They will stand blank. Empty. Nothing. Hollow.

They can not keep their nonexistent eyes off the most fiery and alive visage of life they’ve ever seen. It’s like staring directly into Her light but instead of becoming scorched they are soothed. Welcoming. A simple soft light, like a candle but somehow screams for attention. This they do not mind.

They do not mind at all. They do not mind anything. They do not have a mind for anything. Do not know how to. They do not feel the need to. They do not feel. They are empty. They do not feel. Do not feel. Do not feel. Do not feel.

The soft light has made its way to them. They are unsure when this happened. They do not care when it happened. Those crimson eyes burn into their empty sockets like they see something that is so clearly not there.

Silence. Conversations around the room do not exist. The carefully observing creator does not exist. Too much perfume and cold food do not exist. There is nothing. Empty.

There should be nothing. There needs to be. Yet that brilliant scarlet flame remains. Softly, it refuses to disappear. It refuses to fade into the nothing. It will persist. He will persist. Whether he is wanted or not, the stranger they know will always persist. His calming blaze promises that much.

He is saying something. They do not respond. Not even with some movement of their head or twitch of the hand. Still and even. Unmovable. Unshakeable.

He still laughs like they did. It’s hoarse but not unpleasant. It’s not anything. It will be nothing. The Pale King. The Wyrm. His eyes demand it to be nothing.

But the carefully observing creator does not exist.

They realize they smell cinnamon. The stranger is closer than previously seen. Or had he always been mere inches from them. It’s hard to say. They can not say. They linger on the cinnamon smell.

He says something again behind a thin black hand. It does something to the nothing that they are. Twists something deep. They try to cram it down but that just makes the something lash out. They are quickly fighting a losing battle. They can not fail.

Those crimson eyes light up as their head tilts just by the smallest degree. The something cries out. A small victory. They will not allow it to happen again. Failure is not an option.

Time passes. They aren’t sure how much. It never occurred to them to keep track of such a thing. Their focus is on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing can bend a will that does not exist. Not even a raspy laugh and bright eyes.

Their head snaps to look down. A reflexive action. No thought put into it. The stranger they know has taken one of their hands. It burns. Fire in their hand. Like a wildfire it runs up their arm, determined to overtake them. It sears everything it touches.

They grip the scarlet fire just a tad tighter.

He wants to take them somewhere, the stranger they know. He says something. They won’t be gone long. They are not convinced. They can’t be convinced when there is nothing to want. They stand firm.

Those eyes never leave them.

The burn leaves their hand. There is no relief. Just an empty ghost of something that ate at their hand. It’s empty now. Cold. Nothing. They want-

No.

They do not want anything.

They feel nothing.

Do not feel.

The sweet cinnamon scent is leaving.

They follow it. They keep failing. Again and again. Falling to a candle in nothingness. To a scratchy voice. To crimson eyes. To a cinnamon smell. Failure is not an option. This is not the first time they’ve followed the light out of the palace. They are not aware of the surprised whispers and fast chatter as they pass. It does not exist. Only the empty void and the bright fire that refuses to leave. Or are they scrabbling to keep it in sight? They do not dwell on it.

Orderly aristocrats. Carefully set food. Colorless architecture. A home without a heart. A Pale masterpiece. Gone for the rain and chilled air. Nothing can defy the constant cold of the grand crying city. Nothing ever will. No thoughtless Vessel. No scarlet flame. Not even Pale extravagance. It simply continues with not a single thought. Empty. Silent.

Their arm burns. They stay still. It doesn’t leave. They don’t argue. There’s no need to. The fire trails down to their hand once more. Holds it. Traps it. Forces itself to be known. The scarlet fire will not be ignored for the biting cold that remains untamed. They do not stop it. They do not want to.

It pulls. He pulls. Somewhere else. He’s speaking again like they can hear them. He does not appreciate the White Palace. It serves him no comfort, no home. It serves to only compress and contain such a beautiful blaze. They can not agree or disagree. It simply is. The thoughts of another is just that. The thoughts of another. Never they’re own.

Yet they feel compelled to nod. They heard nothing yet they still do. For comfort? For understanding? To entertain that scarlet blaze? They are not sure. They never are. They never will be.

Jagged that smile. A crack against a white face. An imperfection. It hits something in them again before they can stop it. The void twists. Something gives. Failure is not an option but they hear for the first time tonight.

“Hollow, dear Vessel, you do not have to follow if it is not your wish.”

If anything follows, they do not hear it. They do not wish for anything. They do not have the mind to. They have nothing to wish for. They do not want. They do not feel. They carry out tasks when given them with no will to argue.

Yet they still shake their head. Then they are moving again, pulled along by the stranger they know too well. The city seems to cry harder. It’s savior is being pulled away. It’s solution is failing. It’s hope is being eaten by a jagged smile.

They do not think about it.

There is silence once more. Not even the heavy tears around them can cut through the silence. The stranger does not speak further. He simply continues his trek to lead the Vessel somewhere away from it’s Pale home. For what reason? They will never know.

Surely the stranger can think. Can feel. What is he thinking now? What compels him to do this, to lead the Vessel from it’s empty home? Is it familiarity? Childish routine that refuses to break? They do not know. They will not know. They are not meant to.

The fire does not leave them. Even as they walk along a familiar line it does not leave. It guides them past grand windows that peer into the White Palace. It disregards the city's tears with no interest. He has no care for the ancient city and it’s sorrows. It’s not his to protect. His only interest is the frozen hand in his own and those empty black holes that stare through his shell.

They round a corner. Step into an elevator they have to hunch over to fit in. They don’t even think about it as they grab the lever and pull, sending the empty vessel and scarlet fire up. They do not take their hand off the lever.

The stranger they know stands so close now. Closer than in the empty room full of nothing chatter. Crimson eyes look past them and out the large windows of the elevator’s shaft. The fire is so close. There should be something there. A burn. A warmth. Danger signs. Red flags. An alarm. But no, it is nothing. Just empty space between two ends. Searing heat and frozen void. Inevitable death and expected life. But yet they feel nothing. There is no poetry here. Just two beings riding an elevator to a familiar destination.

It hurts.

Those crimson eyes hurt.

The elevator stops its ascent.

He waits. For what, who knows. Those eyes were never looking out the window. They never went past them. They are pinned to the spot. Waiting. They do not know for what. They do not bother to know. They blankly stare back at him. They still haven’t let go of the lever.

He says something again. They nod, slowly. Do not be fooled for there is no hesitation in the movement. The stranger smiles once more. It stings. They follow the leading cinnamon scent. Isn’t too much cinnamon a choking hazard? A strange delicacy.

They do not care.

The fire in their hand does nothing to soothe the coming act. A messy affair. They never agreed to it. To agree is to have an opinion on it. To have an opinion is to have a thought. To have a thought is to have a mind. To have a mind is to have a will. They have no will. They do not agree nor do they disagree. It is simply a fact. A fact they follow with practiced understanding. Childish routine. A burning hand.

A silent room. The last hour. A private meeting. Bathed in Pale light and empty architecture. Not even the scarlet fire’s blazing life can breach such an atmosphere. That does not stop it from trying. The follower is the lead now. Yet the new follower still holds the reins. He always will. They don’t have the ability to do so. To curve the scene is to hold power and will. They will never have such a thing.

They do not need to see behind them to know when to sit. They do not care for the throne they claim. It could be soft or hard or plastered in cinnamon. It is simply a spot to sit. Nothing more. It will never fail it’s task. It can not.

The fire leaves their hand but not their body. It travels, scorching the path it takes. Slowly. Up like the elevator. Their other side begins to burn as well. The hungry blaze eats away at whatever it can reach. It chows mercy for but a moment, stopping it’s ascent at the shoulders. A generous pause. A moment of reprieve. A time to think. To be sure.

They do not think. They wouldn’t even if they could.

They do not protest when the stranger closes in. They do not think when that delicate burning body easily slides into their own. They do not feel that searing fire as it presses against the cold nothingness. A practiced ritual.

They shake just slightly as burning hands slide up to their neck.

He speaks gentle words. They are raspy and broken but so full of life and something they can’t place. They do not feel the clasp of their cloak undo. Silk slides off their shoulders. The chair reveals a new purpose as the carefully crafted cloak is hung off the back of it.

A jagged smile presses against their snout. A thanks. Appreciation for following such a foul act. It does not matter. The fire will eat away any memory of it. The void will cut out any thought of it.

Hands remember where the mind fails. The fire shakes as empty cold void holds it by the sides. Their head tilts, long neck exposed. Their whole being is exposed. That’s not the point.

A gentle nuzzle against such a vulnerable area. A final thank you. There’s something else but neither will place it. Neither will think of it. A black hand grips one of their horns, holding their head in place. They wouldn’t have moved it anyways.

The sting of fangs is nothing compared to the wet intense heat that eats away at their throat. It scorches everything it touches in a new unfamiliar way. It’s hungry and greedily takes as it pleases. The cold void tightens its grip.

It hurts.

It burns. Oh how it burns. Black liquid spills out of the hollow eyes of their face. Their leg shakes. The blaze doesn’t stop. There is no stopping it.

They don’t want to stop it.

It makes them dizzy. They can feel it so clearly. Every sharp tooth. Every delicate finger. Every hard burning piece of carapace. They drink it up. Every second of the beautiful scarlet sear. They should not feel but something screams in frustration every time they try to snuff the flame. They should not feel but the careful hands holding them beg them to. They should not feel but the burning desperate body against their own tells them it’s ok.

So they do. They fall. They fail. Just this once. They breath in that suffocating cinnamon and breath out fire. They feel it like an infection. Spreading fast. So alive just like it’s owner. He’s alive. They are alive. They feel alive. They feel. It hurts so much. The black liquid clouds their vision.

They never want it to stop. They want their voidheart, their very being, to be eaten away by those dazzling flames. They want to be nothing. Left an empty husk. No vessel. No savior title. No expected life. Let the fire eat them whole. Let it taste the void for what it is. They want him to drown in it just as the scorch burns them to nothing.

His teeth sink deeper. A cold hand rests on his head. He purrs deep and low. It’s more than a feast. It is no treat nor a vile action. It is familiar yet he’s never been here before. He’s never met this vessel before. He’s never seen this palace. He’s never tasted the void.

It tastes like coming home without knowing he ever missed it. He never wants to miss it again.

How long does the fire burn? How long does their shell scald? How long does that scarlet blaze infect the empty void in their veins? They do not care. They never want it to stop. Even as the black liquid slides down their face. They want to feel this forever. It’s intoxicating. It’s addicting.

They do not stop the whine of protest as the painful fire leaves their neck. It hurt so much yet all that is left is a slight sting. Nothing more. There never will be. The gentle hand on their horn lets go just to take their chin in the same easy grasp. Those crimson eyes burn all the same.

“Why do you crave to be burnt away so violently? What is it you gain from such a thing?”. They hear him. Through the black inky fog and scorching veins and shaking body. They hear him so very clearly.

“There is no prize for your actions. You know this, yes?”. They know. They know that well. They do not care. They do not want to care.

“Is it you wish to be free of this Pale Prison? To shed The Wyrm?”. The Wyrm does not matter. The Pale Palace is false hope. Their hands tighten on the scarlet flame.

“Do you wish to drown in the fires of a new god?”. They never wanted to be in the first place.

“Why do you chase an end when mine is so near? You must live. Why crave an inevitable death my dear?”. Please. Replace them with this disgusting nothing. Fill them with a flame so lively and knowing that not even the city of tears can snuff it.

They give. Is it the second time or the fifth time that night they’ve failed? They don't know. They don’t care. All that matters is the impossibly hot god and killing twist of cinnamon.

They bow their head. Rub it against the cracked white face before sliding it down further to the blazing god’s shoulder. The black liquid smears and they do not care. Neither does the fire. Their arms trap him in place. Hold the wild blaze where it needs to be. Where they need it to be. Where they want it to be. It does not protest. He simply purrs.

They do not want to feel. They do not want to wish. They do not want to crave. They want it all to dissipate. Yet the thought of being back in that large empty room with nothing chatter and empty stares hurts more than any scarlet fire could.

So they will not return. Not tonight at least. Tonight is not for that hollow place. It is for them and their blazing god that looks to them for just a taste of home.

Sweet hands hold them just as close. He’d drown in the empty void if he had the choice. It would be a valiant way to go. A preferred way. He does not have to worry about that tonight though. He wants to engrave the way the vessel shakes against him. With fear? With distress? With want? He does not know.

The void and fire stay like this. On the chair that does not fail in a room so empty and pale not even scarlet flames can change it. The city cries outside. For a lost savior. For lost hope. For a missing solution. A failed vessel. It can sob and scream and fall all it wants. The vessel only hears the gentle whispers of a jagged smile. The Pale Wyrm will have his hollow knight tomorrow. Not tonight.

He will wait. He does not have a choice. If they can not feel then he will not have time.

Sweet hands move their head with ease. Smeared nothing stares into blazing crimson. That jagged smile presses to their snout once more and they wish they would melt. This is no thank you. This is no childish routine. They have not been a child for a long while.

“You can not follow me. I must go when morning breaks, you are aware of this”. A cruel truth. They want it to be an equally hurtful lie.

“You will stay and carry out your destiny just as I will carry out mine. To be born in chains is a heavy burden but one to carry all the same”. They want him to stop talking.

“But just as always, I will return home. Again and again. No matter the time or distance. I will come back for that sweet taste”. His smile is pressed to their snout again and they want to feel nothing. They press back for just a moment. Silence takes over once again and they drown in a grim but beautiful scarlet fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. We shall see if I continue to bring anything to the table. This was written in google docs so please excuse any choppiness of the work. The page width is shorter there.


End file.
